


the empire they build together

by melonbutterfly



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Handcuffs, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:59:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonbutterfly/pseuds/melonbutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once it's all over, all Natasha wants to do is fuck Clint, closely followed by killing Loki. But their new demigod-ally would mind the latter and their injuries would make the former more unpleasant than anything else right now. It's a good thing she has self-control more than anything else.</p>
<p>She bides her time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the empire they build together

Once it's all over, all Natasha wants to do is fuck Clint, closely followed by killing Loki. But their new demigod-ally would mind the latter and their injuries would make the former more unpleasant than anything else right now. It's a good thing she has self-control more than anything else.

She bides her time.

They keep Loki in their basement, and they heal and talk and disagree and finally compromise. They get time off, not officially sanctioned but completely endorsed by Fury. They pack their bags, all of them, and drive to the spot where the two Asgardians will be picked up by something that had a lot of people very excited, Banner and Stark right at the front of them.

Clint stands in front of Loki, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, and stares. Just stares. Natasha watches the whole thing for a moment, and then she leans in and whispers, "They once sewed his mouth shut."

Clint smiles. The two aliens leave and everybody drives off into the metaphorical sunset to find themselves or something.

Natasha has plans.

"You going to tell me where we're going?" Clint asks.

"Just drive," she says. She gives him instructions and he figures it out eventually, eyes alight even while he seems confused.

"I thought we were taking a vacation."

"We get Stark's jet tomorrow," Natasha explains. Right now Banner's in it (if he managed to get away from Stark yet, honestly the two of them hit it off instantly, boys and their toys), heading off to Tibet to spend ten days with monks who never speak a word. Strange place for a person who's always angry (always calm), though Natasha supposes anyone would get frustrated there after a while. Can't even ask to pass the salt at the table, if they enjoy such frivolous things as salt.

She's never understood monks. Or religion, for that matter. A good thing too, or she'd feel rather foolish by this point, having met two "gods".

"So what's the plan? We'll spend a nice evening at home and then head off for a nice balmy beach tomorrow?"

_Home_. Natasha is still adapting to the idea that she has one. She isn't sure the place they're going applies to the definition, though. It's a house, and it has their things in them, and it's in a remote location, but especially the latter mean they don't get to spend much time there. Usually there isn't enough time between missions to warrant going through the trouble of getting there only to have to leave again in a week, in Natasha's opinion. Besides, the more often they go there, the less secure it becomes, both in terms of them being found there and in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s surveillance.

"Yes."

"Couldn't we take a different plane? Military? Hell, public, for all I care?" He's not complaining, just curious. Clever Clint. Never accept the status quo, always ask questions.

"You'll need a private jet tomorrow." She sends him a look and he turns quiet, intrigued.

Natasha spends the rest of the ride thinking – it had been terribly distressing at the time, but she has the luxury and indulgence now to replay their fights in her mind. She wants to throw him off a building to see him twist and shoot mid-air; muscles tensing and eyes focused, expression calm and concentrated. Like a fish in the water, elegant, agile, falling.

She's going to cuff his wrists to the headboard so she can watch him writhe.

They stop for food on the way, and he wants to play; he's in a good mood, the impending vacation and much more the prospect of Loki being off their planet and off their hands, punished right this second, buoying him. They're a freshly married couple, handsome husband and his beautiful new wife, and she's pregnant. Too early for anyone to see, but their faces glow and she cups her belly. He's solicitous, hand on the small of her back, he opens doors for her and kisses her hand, wraps an arm around her shoulders and whisper secrets in her ear while kissing her cheek. The diner's waitresses are completely charmed, listen to their recollection of the wedding (not perfect, Clint got tipsy because his best man tried to calm him with водка, and Natasha kept stepping on his feet during their dance) with dreamy faces and wishful sighs, spin fantasies of their perfect little boy or little girl, and their desserts are on the house. Clint calls her "darling" and "sweetheart" and "love"; she calls him "голубушка" and "любимая" and "любовник". She's half Russian today, she doesn't believe in empires, except the ones they build together. He tells her he loves her.

By the time they arrive it's dusk, and they stop the car out of view of the house, slide out perfectly silently. Half an hour they've swept the perimeter, made sure nobody was inside (and truly nobody was, a minor miracle; privacy is a non-essential luxury as far as S.H.I.E.L.D. is concerned) and taken the dustcovers off the bed. Apart from the bathroom it's the only thing they'll need tonight.

Natasha gets her chest out. Clint sees when he comes back from the bathroom; he stops in his tracks, stares. She doesn't look up from where she's examining two of her cocks, trying to assess which one she wants tonight. There's a thicker one (though not her thickest; she's already discarded that one, she doesn't have the patience to be the level of careful it would require) curved and made to look realistic if it weren't for the deep purple color, and a thinner one with ripples, pale white.

"If I can make a suggestion," Clint says, voice a little hoarse, "I'd like the white one."

Yes, they're on the same page.

She picks the white one and puts it on the bed, next to where she's put the harness, lube and handcuffs in a neat row.

Clint is still standing in the doorway, staring at her (really rather spare, today) assortment of toys when she turns around after pushing the box under the bed. His eyes are dark, cheeks flushed, and there's a tell-tale bulge in his jeans.

"Naked," Natasha orders, voice soft.

With a jerk he comes back to himself, eyes wide and strangely helpless as he opens his belt, pushes down his jeans and boxers, dismantling himself. Within record time he stands in front of her, bare and uncovered. "Tasha," he says, nothing but a plea, voice high and raspy. He needs this as much as she does.

Smiling sweetly, she walks over to him and cups his face, kisses him gently on the mouth. "You've been so good, Clint."

He's already breathing harder when she pulls back, eyes wide and vulnerable. "Please," he whispers; it sends a shiver down Natasha's back. Stepping away, she starts to take off her clothes, watching him watch her. He manages to hold her gaze while she unbuttons her blouse, opens her pants, but when she starts to remove the weapons strapped all over her body he can't help but watch. Knives and needles, blades and a couple of guns, a garrote, metal all over her body, warm from her skin. His mouth opens, tongue slivering out to lick his lips. Taking her underwear off is almost an afterthought; she's already naked.

"On the bed, now," she orders, and he hastens to obey, climbing over her tools and lying on his back, legs spread and hands already above his head. She's not going to cuff him yet, she decides; he clearly wants it, but she wants to watch him have to restrain himself, hold back from reaching out for her.

She kneels between his legs, pushes his knees up a bit so he isn't quite so spread-eagle and also because she likes the way his hips tilt up invitingly. Briefly she considers making him hold his knees up and wide for her, a non-verbal plea, but she discards it for now. She wants to hold on to his hips while she fucks him, finger-shaped bruises on his skin. Everything else has faded; no scar to add to his collection. It's been nearly three weeks. He's unmarred and entirely hers to mold.

He's beautiful, all coiled strength, spread out for her in complete surrender. It had taken her a while to recognize the feeling, but he'd been one of the first things she wanted for herself once she'd recovered herself enough to want again. He's not perfect, not by a long shot, rash and reckless, impulsive, but he's a thrill to fight and even more so to bed. Natasha knows nothing that isn't more enjoyable with him involved and that terrifies her, but she tells herself that it's okay because she has him. He was stolen from her, but she got him back.

"You're magnificent," she whispers, running her hands up his thick, muscular thighs, higher up to cup his waist – that waist, it drives her to near-distraction sometimes – and across his ribs. Clint is biting his lips, holding back words, she knows not which, but if his mouth is full of the same things his eyes are near brimming over with, she understands the silence.

Natasha knows mercy because he taught her, so she leans in and kisses him. A small noise escapes his throat when he opens his mouth eagerly, relief and something else that gets swallowed when their tongues tangle.

They both get lost in the kiss, but Clint doesn't let go of the headboard and when Natasha lets her body come to rest on his it's entirely by choice. He whimpers when they touch that way, all that skin on skin, not enough friction by far. Part of her imagines sliding up and taking him inside, riding him, coiled muscle straining against the need to move, but it's an idle fantasy, tucked away for later.

Reaching to the right, where her tools lie in a neat row, she takes the handcuffs and hands them over to him. He takes them and Natasha sits back to watch him cuff himself, ignoring how his mouth strains after her. Clint breathes hard for a moment and stares up at her, but she's merciless, waits poised above him until he gives in, putting his wrists into the cuffs and closing them with neat, metallic clicks. He could get out if he wanted to, but that's half the point. That he doesn't – get out, or even want to.

"Good," Natasha purrs when he pulls to prove to both of them that he's secure. She cups his face, slides her thumb along his lower lip, stubble rough in her palm. At the touch his mouth falls open as if natural and she lets him play a bit, lick her thumb and suck it into his mouth. All too soon, though, she has to pull away; he's rolling his hips into her subtly, hard cock pushing against her belly, and they both don't have the patience.

Clint whines when she takes her hand away and pulls off him, but when she reaches for the lube he gulps. His face is expressive unless when he doesn't want it to be, and right now he probably couldn't hold back even if he wanted to: his anticipation and eagerness is written all over him.

His eyes fall shut when she slowly pushes one wet finger into his hole. He looks blissful, almost calm, like he's needed this as much as she. God, does she need it.

Natasha is careful with the prep because she's going to fuck him into the mattress. She wants him sore tomorrow but not so sore he'll be truly uncomfortable. At first he's patient – as patient as Clint can be in this situation, which isn't all that much, considering – but pretty soon he starts to writhe, well-aware how much she likes seeing him like this and what it does to her. But, for all his patience, he doesn't have her level of self-control (and that's a good thing, because of how she got there). He starts to whine because she's still at just two fingers, twisting them and deliberately brushing by his prostate just to see him tremble and bite his lower lip, red and swollen.

She hears herself murmur things, low and in Russian, how good he is, how delicious he looks like this, what she's going to do to him. Clint moans and squeezes his eyes shut, arms straining against the cuffs and hips twisting every time she pushes in, pulls out. She can never decide whether he's the most beautiful in motion or when he keeps perfectly still, attention completely focused the moment before he explodes into action, but this is definitely one of her favorite looks on him. Aroused beyond belief, at her mercy, nearly desperate to please and to be pleased.

By the time she has four fingers in him he's begging and she has to keep his hips still with one firm hand on his pelvis. He says "please" so prettily, in all the languages they know, the "р" rolling perfectly out of his throat. Usually he's too lazy to do it right, unless he has to; it sends shivers down her back to hear him beg in her mother tongue. She's nearly at the end of her patience, so it's a good thing that he's ready for her.

Clint turns frantic when she pulls away and moves back even though he knows she needs a moment to pull on the strap-on and adjust her cock. She's practiced and efficient, though, despite the slight tremble in her hands, knows exactly where it needs to go, and so she's ready in under a minute. More than ready himself, Clint pulls his knees up all on his own, feet flat on his back, presenting his wet, stretched hole and leaking cock. His eyes are wide and dark, focused on her as she moves between his legs, takes her cock and rubs it between his cheeks while she coats it with lube.

"Please," he whines, lips red and wet, and that's it. Taking hold of his hips, Natasha pushes in with one slow thrust, watching intently as his mouth falls open his eyes grow wider.

"Oh god," Clint gasps. Yes, she thinks, _yes_ , and starts to thrust.

"Good," she murmurs while he gasps, voice low. Slowly she picks up the pace until she's pounding into him. Shivers run through her body as she watches Clint writhe and moan and tremble, whole body tense, skin glowing. He's utterly breathtaking like this.

Natasha doesn't know how long they keep this up; she gets utterly lost in the rhythm and in watching him, it's almost meditative. Clint knows better than to come without permission or warning and he manages to hold on magnificently, clenching around her cock and writhing, eyelashes fluttering every time she pushes in. Eventually he squeezes his eyes shut and groans her name. "Tasha, please, _please_ -"

"Come," she snaps, voice hard and breathless. It's all he needs. Throwing his head back, Clint yells and comes.

Natasha waits until he's coming down from it a little before pulling out; in record time she's pulled the harness off and is straddling his thigh, rubbing herself against him. He tenses his muscles and strains up towards her, so Natasha leans down and kisses him, messy and uncontrolled.

"Tasha, please," he murmurs again, and she shudders and comes with a low moan.

They lie together in a tangled, sweaty heap for a while, catching their breaths and catching themselves, perhaps also catching each other. Eventually she pushes herself up only to find that Clint is almost asleep. Amused, she opens his cuffs and clears the bed, wipes both of them off and pulls the sheet over him. Then, because she's on a vacation and because their security system is top notch, she allows herself to crawl into bed with him without checking the perimeter again.

Clint must have been waiting for her, because he's still awake when she curls up next to him. Curving his body into hers, he wraps an arm around her and presses his mouth into her neck, letting out a deep sigh before clearly falling asleep.

Natasha stays awake a little longer, thinking about what might be and what might never have been. Clint breathes warm against her back.


End file.
